


Apologies

by Captain_Loki



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drunken Confessions, Emotions, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Processing Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-08-20 10:08:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20226109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Loki/pseuds/Captain_Loki
Summary: “I’m sorry,” Crowley says, voice cutting through whatever it was that Aziraphale had been talking about. They’re sitting side by side on the small sofa in the back of the bookshop, wine glasses empty.Aziraphale pauses, looking surprised and a little concerned at the way Crowley’s voice has taken on that tone that suggests he wants nothing more than for the Earth to open once more and swallow him whole rather than actually have whatever conversation he’s prepared himself for.----In which they discuss the Holy Water incident





	Apologies

Crowley has been unusually quiet for most of their dinner date, seated comfortably in a quiet corner of one of Aziraphale’s favorite restaurants. He knows this Crowley, poised figuratively and literally on the edge of his seat. Crowley’s attempt at his usual sprawl is undermined by a tension in his shoulders that, had he not known Crowley well enough, may have gone noticed.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, his curiosity getting the better of him, but he knows not to push. Crowley might wear his feelings a little openly but he isn’t equipped to _talking _about them. “Perhaps we should retire to the book shop, have a drink.”

“Wha’? Oh, right. Yeah, sure Angel,” Crowley nods and allows Aziraphale to lead them back to where the Bentley is parked. 

When they’re both settled in, Crowley’s hands squeeze the steering wheel, knuckles white with the effort. “Angel?” Crowley asks, he doesn’t turn the car on nor waits for a response, “you remember when I first asked you for the Holy Water?” Crowley turns his head to look at him, finally. 

Aziraphale is a little thrown off guard and he stutters for a second before sighing. 

“Of course.” He wishes it didn’t sound so shaky, but it’s not something that Aziraphale likes to think about. “What about it?” He asks, a little short. 

Crowley recoils slightly and Aziraphale feels a swift remorse. The car starts and Crowley gives a halfhearted shrug and peels out of the spot, narrowly avoiding two cars. 

“Never mind,” he says staring resolutely at the road as the sky suddenly opens up, heavy raindrops pouring in buckets. Aziraphale wants to apologize, but instead he sits quietly and wonders what Crowley was going to say. 

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says, voice cutting through whatever it was that Aziraphale had been talking about. They’re sitting side by side on the small sofa in the back of the bookshop, wine glasses empty.

Aziraphale pauses, looking surprised and a little concerned at the way Crowley’s voice has taken on that tone that suggests he wants nothing more than for the Earth to open once more and swallow him whole rather than actually have whatever conversation he’s prepared himself for. 

“What on Earth for?” Aziraphale on the other hand is woefully unprepared. He’s also, not drunk, he doesn’t think, but he’s not sure he could really say he’s not _not _drunk either. 

Crowley rights himself in his seat. Aziraphale watches his eyes catch on the candle in the middle of the table in front of them, tall flame dancing in the dim light.

“I never really thought about why you were so upset,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale can hear the shame in his voice. “At the time, I thought it was because you were worried about getting into trouble. I know you said as much, but I _believed _it.” 

Aziraphale lets his hand settle gently atop Crowley’s until he can rub his thumb in what he means to be soothing circles. “I was never going to use it to--kill myself--,” Crowley says, “But it would have destroyed you too, if I had.”

“Yes, it would have,” Aziraphale says, voice firm, resolute. Crowley spreads his fingers beneath Aziraphale’s until thread together in a perfect fit.

“So, I’m sorry, Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice is soft and his catches Aziraphale’s gaze and holds it. Crowley’s golden irises glisten and Aziraphale is a little alarmed at the realization that Crowley is close to tears.

Crowley is quiet for a long moment, and Aziraphale can see he’s trying to fight back whatever is threatening to spill out. Aziraphale waits patiently by his side; Crowley, after all, had done his fair share of it. Crowley’s hand trembles for a moment in his. Aziraphale squeezes reassuringly. When he finally speaks, it’s with a shaky voice, cracking in a way so befitting of one as shattered as Crowley looks.

“When I thought you burned in Hellfire because of me...” Crowley doesn’t finish his thought but he doesn’t really have to. He thinks of the Ligur puddle on Crowley’s doorstep and imagines for a moment that grips him with abject terror what it would have been like to find it, believing it to be Crowley. 

"Hastur mentioned you by name, they didn’t just know I cocked things up, and I thought I lost you, Aziraphale.” he huffs a sardonic laugh, but it sounds more like a sob. 

His lower lip trembles, but he continues, “I was too late. I’ve never been too late, before.”

“Oh, _Crowley_, love,” Aziraphale sighs, his heart wrenches in his chest with an ache that overtakes him and he pulls Crowley into him. Crowley doesn’t resist, instead he buries his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and wraps his arms around him, grabbing fistfuls of Aziraphale’s waistcoat at his back. 

Aziraphale hesitates for a moment before he gives himself over to the temptation to reciprocate in kind, and he does, tightening his hold on Crowley and pressing himself somehow, impossibly closer. 

An age passes, maybe only a moment, but it feels very much like Crowley has stopped time again, and perhaps he has. The room feels quiet and settled, but the flame still flickers.

“I’m sorry, too, Crowley,” Aziraphale breaks the silence with a soft and earnest voice. “I never should have implied we were nothing more than...acquaintances. Or that our friendship was simply a means to an end and not, the end, in itself.”

Crowley turns his face, rests his cheek against Aziraphale’s chest, his heart beating faster beneath it, “Angel--”

“--No, listen, before I lose my nerve,” Aziraphale lets out a nervous laugh. Crowley falls silent. “I knew you loved me, Crowley, I can _feel _love, and you...often, well, darling, _reek _of it,” Aziraphale trails off, twisting his hands apologetically.

Crowley pulls back and looks like he’s about to argue, but Aziraphale cuts him off once more.

“The point is,” he continues,”the point is, it was cruel. It wasn’t meant to be, that wasn’t my intention, but I can only imagine how it must have felt.” Aziraphale catches Crowley’s gaze. “I was just absolutely terrified at the thought of losing you, and terrified of--of--how absolutely terrified I was,” Aziraphale confesses.

“Did--” Crowley starts. He looks away and swallows heavily. He clears his throat, “did you love me then?” 

Aziraphale’s heart beats faster, and he reaches out and lays a gentle hand to Crowley’s cheek. Crowley’s eyes slip shut and he leans into it, allows Aziraphale to turn his head. Crowley opens his eyes and catches Aziraphale’s gaze again.

“_Desperately_, Crowley,” Aziraphale admits, and he feels his face heat but he needs Crowley to hear the conviction in it.

“You gave something to me, something special, and I regret I threw it back at you,” Aziraphale looks down at his lap, where his hands twist together once more. ”Even so you always came back, always.”

“And I always will, Angel, until the end of all existence or mine,” Crowley gives him a soft teasing smile, the kind that Aziraphale adores, the one just for him. 

“I don’t deserve you Crowley,” he says, voice sad and sincere. Crowley makes an indignant noise in the back of his throat and turns towards him fully.

“What the fuck, Angel?” He starts, “I’m a _demon_.”

“What else would you be? An Aardvark?” Aziraphale says, and Crowley laughs in spite of himself, and something inside Aziraphale untwists.

“A demon, maybe, but one with a conscience, with empathy, with the capacity to laugh and live and _love_. You are something else, Crowley.” Crowley is staring at him now, mouth twitching. “I don’t know, maybe we both are.”

“Well, than maybe we deserve each other,” Crowley suggests with a wicked grin. (_”It’s not that bad once you get used to it’_). 

“You’re probably not wrong,” Aziraphale agrees. They lapse into silence then, still pressed against one another. 

“Now what?” Crowley asks finally, squeezing the hand Aziraphale doesn’t remember him holding. He looks at it speculatively.

“I was thinking, perhaps if you’re free tomorrow, it’s going to be lovely weather for a--um--” Aziraphale clears his throat nervously,” a picnic.”

Crowley’s head turns towards his fast enough Aziraphale knows he understands the implication, what Aziraphale is offering. 

“I will be free every tomorrow for the foreseeable future, angel,” Crowley tells him, his eyes wide and earnest. Aziraphale tries to temper the smile that threatens to give all of him away. 

He thinks maybe that ship has sailed when Crowley takes his hand raises it to his lips. Aziraphale slips it easily from his grasp and he leans forward, cupping Crowley’s sharp jaw in his hands and presses their foreheads together. 

Crowley lets out an intake of breath and his hands clutch at Aziraphale. Either one of them could tilt this way or that to catch the other’s lips to theirs. Instead Crowley pulls back just far enough to make eye contact. 

Aziraphale feels spread open and naked sitting here under Crowley’s gaze. His reptilian eyes make his stare that much more intense. He knows it’s a sensitive spot for Crowley, so he doesn’t say it, never has, but he thinks it a shame the world would make him hide them away. 

“Can I kiss you, angel?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale nods, perhaps too enthusiastically because Crowley starts to grin, which is not at _all _conducive to kissing. Aziraphale doesn’t care though, when their first kiss is off kilter, fumbling, and a little awkward. It’s perfect, and so very them. 

Aziraphale could live in this moment forever, where they’re safe and happy, where he can feel the heat from Crowley’s body and smell the spice scent of him so sharp in the spaces where his sweat has gathered. 

It feels like the good stretch of his wings after too long hidden away, feeling tight and cramped and tense. Aziraphale captures Crowley’s lips again and presses him back against the couch, where they can kiss properly.

And they _do_. 


End file.
